Disclaimer: I own shirts. Many shirts. I do not own Sara, Grissom, or CSI

A/N: This story has been slightly edited of part three to conform with standards. If you are familiar with Live Journal, you can go to geekfiction. I have the same name there.

Thank you so much mellie for the beta'ing


It all starts with a shirt, and a rainstorm. For three minutes they rush to collect whatever they can. For another ten they stand, pelted by freezing drops of water, and watch the body being loaded into the coroners van. They watch the rest of their evidence is ruined by the precipitation.

Drenched, they return to the lab. It's not until she is in the locker room that Sara remembers that she doesn't have a spare set of clothes at work. Tomorrow is laundry day, and she was planning to bring in a new set of clothes next shift. The workout bag at the bottom of her locker yields a pair of black running pants, but the only other clothing she has is a red jogging bra, which was hardly suitable for work. She bites her lip, trying to figure out what to do, when she feels a tap on her shoulder. Grissom stands behind her, holding a long sleeved black shirt in his outstretched hand.

"Can't have you dripping on the evidence" he says, as she accepts the offering.


"I'll meet you in the layout room after you change. We can see if there's anything salvageable."

She knows he is talking about the rain soaked evidence they had collected, but a part of her can't help misinterpreting his words. Still, she can't help wondering if there is any way to salvage their relationship. She shakes her head at the thought and pulls off her wet shirt, taking a moment to towel off before slipping Grissom's shirt over her head. It smells like him.

When she joins Grissom in the layout room, she finds that what they were able to save doesn't amount to much. No fingerprints, no DNA, a few fibers that may or may not prove to have any bearing on their case. Shift is already over for more then an hour when Grissom calls her attention to the clock.

"We should go home, get some sleep." Sara wonders if he even notices the way he phrased his suggestion.

"My clothes should be dry by now. Let me change and I'll give you your shirt back."

"Don't worry about it. Just get it back to me when you're done with it."

When she takes the shirt off that night, she looks guiltily around the empty room before placing it under her pillow.


Sara leans over the edge of the bed and feels around the floor. The room is dark and she is having trouble figuring out where her clothes are.

"What are you doing?" Almost asleep, his voice is pitched low.

"Looking for my clothes," she mutters distractedly. Damn, she knows they were near the bed when they undressed. Where was her shirt?

"You're leaving." It wasn't a question, and the note of resignation in his voice is a clear reminder that despite what they have shared tonight they still had a lot to learn about each other. Sitting up, she turns in the bed so that she is facing Grissom, with one hand resting lightly on his chest.

"I'm not going anywhere. I just can't sleep naked. I've never been comfortable sleeping naked." Clothing has always been a shield for her. When she was little she had learned that slaps didn't sting quite so much with a layer of cloth between herself and her father's hand. As she got older, clothing became a way to blend into her surroundings, to cover up her vulnerabilities.

The muscles of Grissom's face relax as he pulls her down to him and gently presses his lips to her forehead. Releasing her, he climbs out of bed and opens a drawer, handing her an oversized t- shirt. "You'll be more comfortable in this."

"Thanks." With one hand she accepts the shirt. The other she uses to pull him back into bed. Pulling the shirt on, she lays down on the bed and wraps her arms around him. Tangled together, they fall asleep.


"Sara?" Grissom closes the front door behind him and pauses, listening for any clue to where she might be. It has been almost a month since she moved in. It's long enough that her presence no longer startles him when she walks into a room, but not so long that he can take her being here for granted.

"Sara?" he calls out again. When she doesn't answer he assumes that she was out on an errand or something. Slightly disappointed, he hangs up his jacket and walks into the bathroom. His wrinkled shirt goes into the hamper; his pants are folded neatly and set down on the counter. Grissom turns on the shower and is about to step into the stall when the soft clearing of a throat catches his attention.

"You were looking for me?" Sara says from the doorway.

"Yes. I just wanted..." Turning away from the shower, Grissom loses the ability to speak. Sara is framed in the bathroom doorway, dressed in his seldom-worn tuxedo shirt and nothing else. The first three buttons are undone.

"It's good to want things," Sara remarks as she closes the distance between them. "What do you want?"

With one of her hands on his shoulder, and the other trailing lightly across his chest, Grissom has a difficult time forming a response to her question. Grabbing onto the cuff of the shirt, he stills the movement of her wandering hand.

"You," he says simply. He kisses the back of her hand, then releases it. "I want you."

"What a coincidence. I want you too." Laughing, she circles his wrist with her fingers and pulls him into the shower.


"Are you ever going to get dressed?"

"I am dressed." Sara reaches across the small balcony table and steals a strawberry off of Grissom's plate.

"That is not dressed. That is a swimsuit." It wasn't just a swimsuit, but a bikini. Three scraps of pale blue cloth, leaving all but a few inches of her skin exposed. Not that he minds. The warm Mexican sun has given her skin back the color that working night shift has taken. Her hair has lightened with the hours spent on the beach. She is, if possible, even more beautiful then she had been when they had arrived in Puerto Vay Arta on vacation. He simply isn't comfortable with other people being able to admire as much of Sara as he does.

"How's that?" Sara asks.

Lost in his thoughts, Grissom hadn't noticed Sara leave the table and go into their hotel room, to emerge wearing an oversized T-shirt with a picture of a cartoon misquote and the words 'Bite Me.' Laughing Grissom catches her around the waist and pulls her onto his lap.

"Perfect," he says.

At sunset, they take a walk down the beach. More then one person stops what they are doing to watch them, but Sara never notices. Silently, Grissom scolds himself. It didn't matter how many heads Sara turn when she walks by. She is only in love with him, and that is all that matters.


When Sara and Warrick finish up their case early, they drive out to Henderson to join Grissom and Greg on their murder investigation. Arriving on the scene the first thing Sara notices was that there is blood on Grissom's shirt. The color red was overwhelmingly present, and all she could think was that it will be a bitch to wash out. The shirt is probably destined for the trash. Damn, and she liked that shirt.

"Sara?" Warrick's hand is on her shoulder, and she thinks that is strange. Warrick doesn't touch people that often. Nick often offers a hug in passing, and Greg makes up excuses to touch her, but not Warrick.

"Sara." He is not just touching her now, but shaking her. His fingers press uncomfortably against her collar bone, and she wants to tell him to stop but she can't find the words.

"I'm so sorry, Sara. I did everything I could, but I couldn't save him." Greg is in front of her now, and the pressure of his hand pressing on her skin combined with Warrick's hand on her shoulder makes her want to scream. Why are they trying to tear her apart?

From the corner of her eye Sara sees something move. Turning her head, she sees Brass standing there. Tears are falling silently down his face. Freeing herself from the pair of men, she starts to walk across the room. Someone should find out why Brass is so upset.

The floor is slippery, and she almost falls as her foot slips in a pool of moisture. Looking down to see what caused her to slip, she sees splatters of red on her shoes, more blood. Why is there so much blood? Following the trail, she finds the focal point; Grissom's shirt. Close up, she can see that there is a hole in the shirt. It's almost a perfect circle, and just the size of a...

"Grissom?" she whispers. Trembling, she lets her hand fall to the side of his neck. There is no movement there, no pulse.

"Grissom," she moans. It's like waking from a dream to find herself in a nightmare. She can smell the sharp coppery tang of blood, hear the static of a police scanner broadcasting 'officer down,' see the gun lying on the floor a few feet away. Letting out a sob, she falls to her knees. Her world is collapsing around her, and all she can do, is stare at the hole in his shirt.